


To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

by Ginia



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Afterlife, Fluff, M/M, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 03:20:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13068033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginia/pseuds/Ginia
Summary: Prompto and Noctis would wait a hundred lifetimes to hold each other again. Luckily fate isn't quite that unkind. One single lifetime is enough, and then they are reunited at last.





	To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aosc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aosc/gifts).



> Written for aosc for the Holiday gift exchange.
> 
> I hope you like this. This kind of fic isn't normally in my wheelhouse, but I have no idea how to write one of your other prompts, and the last prompt I kinda already have a WIP for that ship with most of those elements and I'm not nearly clever enough to juggle another one.
> 
> So please accept this and I hope that you enjoy it. I honestly enjoyed writing it.

When Prompto opens his eyes, he’s staring up at the tiles of an unfamiliar ceiling. Buttery afternoon sunlight filters into the room through gauzy curtains that flutter in a warm flower-scented breeze. His body is cradled by the softest mattress, with sheets of fine satin that feel wonderfully cool against his skin.

He sighs and stretches luxuriously, and it’s only when he notes the marked absence of his usual aches and pains that the reality—or unreality—of the situation sinks in.

This isn’t right. Not at all.

The last thing that Prompto remembers is settling down for a nap in the lakeside cabin he’d built with Gladio’s help a few years after the Dawn. He remembers the rain pounding against the shingled roof, the autumn winds gusting so hard against the cabin’s windows that they’d rattled like old bones. He remembers the handmade quilt he’d curled up underneath--a quilt Ignis had made for him over a decade ago, when the former Chamberlain’s hands had still been steady enough to work a needle and thread, before the rigors of old age had claimed first his dexterity and then finally his life. He remembers his own bone-deep aches and the painful constriction in his chest that was making the simple act of breathing so damned difficult lately.

How is he suddenly in the most luxurious bed he’s slept in since probably Altissia circa fifty-odd years ago? How is it a sweet summer’s afternoon when he was weathering an autumn gale earlier that day? How is he breathing this sweet, fragrant air so unencumbered?

Dreaming. He must be dreaming. Ahh well. May as well enjoy it while it lasts.

Skinny legs swing over the edge of the bed as Prompto pushes himself to his feet. Legs covered in a familiar coeurl-printed denim that he’d not seen in decades, other than in treasured photographs. He steps into familiar red-soled boots, also a relic from a time that feels so far away, it may as well have been someone else’s life.

Ahh, so it’s one of those dreams. The kind that paint his weathered features with a fond smile as he sleeps, but is swiftly erased when he awakens alone in his solitary cabin.

It’s not that he’s unhappy with his life. Really, he’s not. He saved the world, and has spent the past five decades watching Eos come back to life through his camera lens. He’s lived every photographer’s dream, with his pictures gracing museums and textbooks alike, working only when and where he wishes to. He kept in touch with his old friends and comrades from what has come to be known simply as The Great Journey (because Ignis had flatly refused to call it the Bro’d Trip or anything with a bit of pizzazz), and has a quaint cabin to come home to when he needs a break from his constant adventuring. There’s even a herd of chocobo in the area that use his lake as a watering hole. He has everything that he could ever want. He’s too old now to go traipsing around Eos taking pictures, but he has his herd of chocobos for company, and really, isn’t that just life goals right there?

He’s even been fortunate to see his friends and comrades live full, happy lives under the light of the blessed sun until the end of their days. Old Cid had gone first, to no one’s surprise except possibly Cid himself. Over the years they had lost Cor, Dustin and Monica, but they had lived long, rich lives and had passed peacefully. Eventually Ignis had passed on as well, and that had been a slightly more bitter pill to swallow if only because Gladio had been heart-broken in his lover’s absence. It had been little surprise that Gladio’s heart had failed him a few months later; he was always fiercely loyal to Ignis in life and in death.

He has lived for so long without the one thing—the one person—that his soul truly craves that he can almost ignore the hollow ache in his chest. It’s only when these mirages of his past haunt his dreams that he has a hard time tamping down his grief and his longing for his light of the night sky, his soulmate, his Noctis.

Sighing, he laces up his dream boots with his nimble and young dream fingers before crossing the room to open the dream door.

It’s when he opens the door that it begins to dawn on him. Normally in these dreams he’s happy. His supressed grief at losing Noctis doesn’t hit until after he awakes, and then it crashes over him like a tidal wave of misery.

Also, this doorknob feels really freaking _real_. Smooth brass, cool to the touch, heavy and solid in his grip.

Prompto frowns, and presses his fingers to a cheek that feels baby smooth. He hesitates for a moment, feeling just a bit silly. Does this even work? Is it an old wives’ tale? He doesn’t really know. But there’s no one else here to see him acting silly, so he shrugs and gives one of his freckled cheeks a sharp pinch.

“Yow!” He pouts and rubs the sore spot. Yep. Definitely felt that.

Not knowing what else to do but press onwards. The door opens onto a long hallway, lined in luxuriously thick red carpet, with elegant wood panelled walls. Other doorways just like his line the corridor, and between them large pictures are hung, with gallery-style lighting above each.

Prompto takes a few hesitant steps, his head turning this way and that, unsure which way to go. This place, while infused with a feeling of warmth and comfort, is unfamiliar. He thinks he can hear something far to his right, and while most would then take that as their cue to veer left, Prompto stubbornly turns and heads towards the noise.

As he makes his way, his gaze flits across the artwork and he recognizes it as his own. Pictures he took during their journey mixed with pictures taken across the breadth of a long career. If this is indeed a dream he’s wildly impressed with the amount of detail his subconscious mind is capable of, because these pictures are exactly right, perfect reproductions of some of his best work.

He pinches himself again. Just checking.

Eventually the long hallway ends, tapering off into a small open sitting area at the top of a flight of stairs that curve downwards. He huffs a sigh and forces himself to descend.  The noises he’d heard grow louder with each step, until what had once been a dull rumble is now very clearly voices, and the soft thumps and bangs of people moving about.

At last Prompto finds himself in the entranceway of what seems to be a stately mansion. Unlike the Citadel which seemed cold and aloof with its black and white marble and intricate gold filigree, this place is warm and cozy, despite its size. Merrily crackling fireplaces, thick rugs, squashy red couches, and wood panelled walls covered in the results of his life’s work.

“Where in the name of the Fat Chocobo in the sky am I?” he wonders aloud.

As if on cue the cacophony of sounds—voices?—he’d heard grow silent. There’s a loud clattering and banging beside him, and a set of double doors are flung open, revealing a familiar set of sapphire blue eyes beneath a messy black fringe. The delighted face greeting him is the same one that’s haunted his dreams for 50 years and when he speaks his voice is just the same, just exactly the same.

“Prompto! You’re finally here!”

The force of Noct’s sudden embrace sends both of them crashing against the nearest wall, and the dull pain of his back smashing against the wood panels feels achingly real. As do the pale arms circling possessively around him, and the head buried against his shoulder, the tears dampening his shirt.

“You kept us waiting for so long, buddy!” The voice, muffled but familiar, the voice he’s longed to hear for so long.

Prompto is surprised to find that his own arms curling around the King of Kings without conscious effort, his hands rubbing soothing circles into the familiar planes of his back. Gods but he knows this back, he’d held Noctis like this so many nights.

“I’m sorry,” Prompto mumbles awkwardly. “I didn’t know I had an appointment?”

Noctis laughs wetly, shaking his head while still keeping his face pressed into Prompto’s shoulder.

Noctis just laughs, finally peeling his face off of Prompto’s shoulder so he can look him in the eye. Familiar amusement sparkles beneath a misting of tears, a hint of mischief in an otherwise angelic face.

“We all have an appointment. Most of us just don’t know when it is.” Noctis smiles wryly. “I guess I was lucky in that sense. Hooray for me, huh?”

When Prompto just blinks at him Noctis laughs more, causing Prompto to pout, a gesture that would feel strange were he not somehow back in a much younger version of his body.

“Are you making fun of me? Geeze, buddy. Usually when I dream about you, you’re not making fun of me.” He scuffs a petulant toe into the carpet.

A warm hand falls gently upon his shoulder, and Noctis favours him with a gentle smile, the kind of smile that never fails to turn Prompto’s insides into a happy puddle of goo.

“Prom, this isn’t a dream.”

“Uhh yes it is?” Prompto bites his lip, stubbornly ignoring the mounting pile of evidence to the contrary.

“Prom, buddy? You’re dead.” Noctis says it so flatly, so matter-of-factly. There’s no dancing around the issue. He doesn’t ask Prompto to take a seat, doesn’t get him a cup of tea and a blanket. He’s bluntly honest, and somehow that’s the clincher. That’s how he knows that yes, this really is his Noctis—the least pretentious, most straightforward and honest friend and lover he’s ever had. Well okay, he’s Prompto’s only lover, but the point still stands.

“I… I am aren’t I?” Prompto breathes. “The last thing I remember is going to bed and then I wake up and I’m here, and I’m still me, but not really me, I haven’t been this me since, well, for a long time, and you’re here, just like I remember, and I’ve missed you so much but I’ve tried so hard to live the best life I can, for you, I went so many places for you, took so many pictures, and you decorated your ghost house with my pictures? You’re so awesome, dude, and did I mention how much I missed you because of that? And I’m rambling, why aren’t you stopping me? Noct you always stop me when I sta—”

A pair of soft lips crash into his, swallowing his cries, smothering the otherwise relentless flow of words.

It’s as if no time has passed, no solitary life taking photos and minding the chocobo herd. They cling to each other with hands and mouths as warmth spreads through Prompto, from the spiky points of his sunshine hair down to the tips of his toes, and everywhere in-between.

They hold each other like this, feeling each other again, tasting each other, breathing each other in. Noct’s kisses are like a fine wine and Prompto rolls each one around in his mouth, savouring it because it’s been so long and he never imagined that he would have a chance to do this again.

By the time they come up for air quite some time must have passed, because suddenly they have an audience. Startled lavender-blue eyes widen at the sight of so many familiar faces crowded around the open door, wearing expressions that range from ecstatic to bemused.

Gladio is there, his face scarred but still younger than what Prompto remembers. Ignis is snuggled against his side, his face blessedly unmarred, seafom green eyes gazing fondly at him. He spots Cindy’s blonde curls and Aranea’s dazzling silver hair easily. Cor’s familiar frown is there, flanked by young men who bear such striking resemblance to Gladio and Noctis that they must be younger versions of Clarus and Regis, which would make the other two men with them Weskham and a nearly unrecognizable Cid. Luna is there, Umbra and Pryna at her feet, looking as if the sight of Noctis embracing Prompto is the answer to all of her prayers. A few of the faces in the crowd have him properly stumped, and he reckons that maybe he’s never met these people—they’re probably relatives of his friends whom he never did have a chance to meet.

Noctis shifts his gaze towards the cluster of people all waiting to welcome Prompto to the Beyond and he smiles, beating all of them to the punch.

“Welcome home, Prom. You really kept me waiting, but I wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

 

 

 


End file.
